


Of the Sun

by evil_bunny_king



Series: Of the Sun [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abora Lavellan, Early Relationship, F/M, Haven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3575078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/pseuds/evil_bunny_king
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d sit in her small human cabin with the book in her lap and sketch to the dim light of the embers: her hands and his; her palm, the mark cracked open, yawning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of the Sun

It was Solas’s hands that stuck in her memory. She recalled them in moments - the firm grip of his fingers around his staff as he caught his breath post-combat, splatters of blood caught in the cuticles; their flourish as he countered her evolving theories on rift magic, slipping from their grasp behind his back. She'd find herself sketching them as she sat by her banked hearth in Haven, long after sunset, trying to capture them between the scratched-out scribbles of her own.

She'd imagine that his hands were strong. Fewer callouses than she had lining the pads of his fingers, different scars stretching the skin. She’d wonder about the moments that shaped them, sitting in the half-light, toying with her stick of graphite and leaving streaks of silver across her cheeks.

Solas was a private man, adept at guiding conversations away from questions about his previous life. She could understand that, a little, enough to respect if not appreciate his deflection. They were all strangers in Haven- the two of them particularly, according to Solas: He was not her kin, _da'len_ , as he had once told her, although time had worn the bite from the words (his tone had been edged, lightly mocking; she’d been wrong-footed by its bitterness as much as she had by the rejection). If he sought to keep his past to himself, after all that he’d given the inquisition, she’d let it be. The gods knew she wished she could have such a luxury herself.

In any case, in lieu of their pasts they’d turned to other topics. Engaged each other in discussions about the cultures they encountered, recalled myths, debated the nature of the rifts - although she suspected he withheld more than he conceded about the latter. Understanding what little she could, though, made the mark more- real, somehow. Fit it into a reality that could be comprehended. Dealt with.

She also couldn't deny she enjoyed the conversations.

He’d greet her outside his lodgings with a smile threatening the corners of his mouth, anticipating new theories, her cultivation of questions. The quirk of his eyebrow (tawny when the sunlight caught it); the expression that warmed his eyes as he considered her words, those hands drifting to his sides - these were more moments that infiltrated her journal, cluttering the pages in smears of graphite and charcoal, staining her finger tips like ash.

She’d sit in her small human cabin with the book in her lap and sketch to the dim light of the embers: her hands and his; her palm, the mark cracked open, yawning.

It was only later, when her fingers were stiff and shiny and her mind finally numbed with exhaustion, that she’d finally subside into sleep.


End file.
